Don't Be Dead
by Roxanne15927
Summary: A series of oneshots about our dear John Watson and Sherlock Holmes dealing with the aftermath of the Reichenbach Fall. No slash.
1. Left Behind

Left Behind

John didn't know what it was like to die.

He wondered this now, sitting on the street, ignoring the hands that were trying to help, the voices offering comforting words that meant nothing. It didn't matter what anyone said, or what anyone did.

Sherlock was dead.

And John was not.

John walked home, his thin jacket doing nothing to keep out the cold that was quickly coming on. The cold didn't bother him, he had a feeling he should get used to it.

He wondered what that would be like, snapping out of existence in a blink of an eye, your pains, regrets, losses...gone.

Nothing but blackness and numbness.

He could feel the sobs in the back of his throat, the tears threatening behind his eyes, but neither came, which _hurt_ more than he possibly could have known.

How could he still be walking, looking to the world as though everything was normal-he felt like he was sinking, falling into his pain.

He eventually made it back into the flat-before he knew it, he was standing in the living room. He stumbled over to his chair, sank into it, and closed his eyes, trying to block out everything.

It didn't work.

###

"Detective Inspector, you can't take that, that's evidence." The young, tow headed officer insisted, reaching for the bundle in Lestrade's hands.

"Don't worry about it, Cooper, I've got it under control. Let go."

"With all due respect, sir, I can't allow this," Cooper replied, refusing to remove his hold.

"I am going to have to ask you again to let go," Lestrade said menacingly. "I _am_ taking it, there is no reason to leave it in evidence."

"Why?"

"_Because_, there is someone who needs it more than we do, and if you don't let me take it, Cooper, I will make sure you _never_ get another position in this department!" Lestrade threatened.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Cooper stared hard at him for a moment, then reluctantly released the bundle.

"Thank you." Lestrade said, and he left before someone else could question him.

###

John awoke to the doorbell ringing.

_Shut up_, Sherlock's voice sounded in his head.

It rang again, and John sighed and went to go answer it, opening the door to reveal Lestrade.

"Can I help you?" John said stiffly. The inspector was one of the last people John wanted to see right now, he accused Sherlock of being a fake, John wanted Lestrade to go away _now_.

Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I just came by, uh, to give you this. Thought you might want it." He awkwardly held out a black bundle.

Sherlock's coat.

_Goodbye, John._

_Sherlock!_

The sight of it was like a knife in his chest, and it was all he could do to keep from gasping aloud. He reached out with unsteady hands, taking the coat from Lestrade. The feel of the coat's fabric in his hands was comforting and painful all at once.

"Thanks," John said curtly.

"You're welcome. Hey, uh, John, if there is anything you need..." He trailed off. "Anyways. Take care, okay?"

Then the inspector was gone, and John was alone.

He closed his eyes for just a moment, before moving back to his chair. He sat down heavily, looking over the coat, a thousand memories playing and replaying, one standing out above the rest.

_If you were dying, if you had been murdered, what would you say?_

_Please, God, let me live._

John inhaled sharply, gripping onto the coat as if it was his lifeline.

"Please, God, let me _die_," John gasped, and a sob burst from his lips, and then the tears came, the first time he had allowed himself to cry since Sherlock jumped, his body shaking from the sudden, violent sobs, the words "let me die" coming again and again until he didn't even have the breath to speak anymore.


	2. Sound

Sound

He never meant to do it.

He was supposed to be lying low, not attracting attention, blending in, and definitely was not supposed to be contacting anyone besides Mycroft.

Today marked one year since Sherlock had faked his death, and strangely enough, he was back in London. Not to stay, he was here to uncover part of Moriarty's network, then he would be on the next plane out.

As he walked down the streets of London, it was so familiar and at the same time, so foreign-he was literally watching London go on about their lives believing Sherlock Holmes no longer existed. That was odd enough to think about in itself-but what was so much worse was knowing that there was one important person in this very city who thought Sherlock was gone, and that was what mattered to him.

Sherlock couldn't pretend he completely understood sentiment-but he did have a better idea now than he did a year ago. He found himself silently pointing out places he used to so frequently visit, and with each place prompted memories he hadn't properly allowed himself to think about for months.

John's voice.

Why was it so hard to remember his voice? Sherlock could picture him so easily, but his voice was becoming harder and harder to hold on to. This frustrated him beyond belief, the one thing he wanted never deleted from his mind palace was slipping away, and he hated it.

Was that Angelo's? The building looked run down, the letters that once so brightly adorned the restaurant window were faded. The restaurant was still open-Sherlock could see a few people inside.

Without thinking, he strode up to the door and went inside, looking around cautiously. Angelo's, which had always been a busy, bustling restaurant before Sherlock's "death", was now practically empty, except for a meager few people sitting at two tables. Most of the other tables had been cleared out.

"May I help you, sir?"

Sherlock startled at the sound of the voice, looking up to see Angelo himself.

He froze, staring back at Angelo. The restaurant owner looked tired, but beside that he looked exactly as he did a year ago. He was staring at Sherlock curiously, and the detective forced himself to look calm, collected. There was no way Angelo would recognize him-for his time in London, he had pulled out all the stops for his disguise- dyed hair, colored contacts, a bland colored t-shirt and jeans, all to completely blend in. But despite that, he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable under Angelo's gaze.

"I said, may I help you?" Angelo said again, still looking at him curiously. His voice sounded exactly like Sherlock remembered, deep, heavily accented and good natured, and now with a tinge of exhaustion, he could tell the past year had not been kind to Angelo.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "No, thank you. I'll, ah, just be going." He turned to leave.

"Wait," Angelo's voice came from behind him. "Do I know you?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said without turning around. "I've never seen you before."

"Oh," said Angelo. "I apologize, you just remind me of someone."

"Coincidence," said Sherlock shortly. "Goodbye."

He walked out without looking back, cursing himself for his stupidity. What if Angelo had recognized him? It would have been all over, he would have been exposed and his chance to finish off Moriarty's London network would be finished. He _had_ to be more careful...

But yet...seeing and hearing Angelo again had been so good, he wanted to ask all the questions that had been on his mind since he left London-how was John? Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade...

Hearing Angelo reminded Sherlock again of how much he missed just the sound of John's voice- ridiculous, sentimental, he knew, but he still did all the same. He'd give anything even just to hear John yelling at him to get the milk for once- was it stupid that he missed that too? He wondered where John was now- was he still at 221B Baker Street? The idea was dismissed before he even allowed himself to think of it, there was no way he could go to Baker Street now...it just wasn't time, even though that was the only thing he had wanted since the day he left.

He had known from the moment he discovered he had to fake his death that leaving John would be the hardest part-but then he hadn't even realized how difficult leaving his best friend would be until he jumped from the roof of St. Bart's, and heard John scream his name, heard John push through the crowd, pleading with the people to let him see, pleading for Sherlock to come back...

_Please, let me through, he's my friend..._

_I was so alone...and I owe you so much_.

John would never know how difficult it was for Sherlock to stand by and just listen, to listen to Mrs. Hudson cry, to listen to John begging a dead man to defy all odds and not be dead. It had actually taken all his willpower not to run to John that day and tell him that it was alright, John could stop being upset because Sherlock wasn't dead, he was still alive and still there.

Somehow, though, he had kept his head and stayed still, and had watched John walk away from his grave, and heard John cry for the first time.

One year had passed, and his wounds had yet to heal.

He passed some more familiar buildings, but he resisted now the temptation to go inside, it was far too risky and he couldn't do it again, but he stopped dead at a street corner when he saw a telephone booth.

Normally, he would have passed right on by-it was just an old, average telephone booth-but today was different, and the idea took root in his mind before he could stop it. He walked in and shut the door, much harder than he had intended, his breath becoming quick and heavy. Did he dare?

He hesitated, hand hovering over the phone. There were an unbelievable amount of risks, he knew, but at that moment he just couldn't get himself to care. He put in the appropriate amount of change and dialed before he could change his mind.

The phone began to ring in his ear, and he felt himself shaking just a bit from anticipation, heart pounding wildly in his chest. It rang once, then twice.

"Hello?"

Sherlock's heart nearly stopped at the sound, and something strange rushed through him. He found himself suddenly unable to speak. It was his John, his voice, and it was still the same one he knew from a year ago, reverberating through his mind, with that single word: "Hello." Just hearing that one word was making the detective happier than he cared to admit, especially since before he hadn't known when he would hear that voice again.

"Hello, is anyone there?"

Sherlock blinked a couple times. _Speak, you idiot_! He commanded himself.

On the other end, John Watson exhaled slowly, sounding frustrated. Sherlock almost laughed aloud-the sound of the sigh John reserved almost always for the detective was so ridiculously endearing he was almost bursting with excitement.

John was about to hang up, Sherlock had to say or do _something_-

"Hello," Sherlock said at last. "I was just-" He hesitated, suddenly unable to come up with any kind of alibi.

"Yes?" John said after a short silence.

Some part of Sherlock had almost been hoping John would immediately recognize Sherlock's voice-but the other part, the more practical part of him knew that he shouldn't and he wouldn't, the man thought Sherlock was dead and was not going to be think a phone call from a random number would be from his deceased friend. And if he recognized that it was Sherlock, it would be disastrous in so many ways, and not just to Sherlock's mission to end the London network.

"Wrong number," Sherlock said finally, dejected.

"Oh, alright then. Goodbye." John hung up. The sound of the phone disconnecting was almost like a knife to Sherlock's chest, and he dropped the phone, pressing his hands over his eyes.

He hadn't wanted to say goodbye again, the thought hadn't even crossed his mind before he had entered the booth. John would probably forget the phone call in moments, but Sherlock would hold on to it until he was able to come home, it was all he had left of John now.

Sherlock had been able to get through saying goodbye to John- now he had to get through John saying goodbye to him.

Sherlock hadn't meant to do it, and yes, maybe he shouldn't have done it, but as he walked out of the booth, John's voice once again vibrant and strong in his memory, he was glad he did, because as silly as it was, just the sound of his best friend's voice would keep him going.

Until he could return to London for good, it would be enough.

_Just one thing, John, just one more miracle, for me...don't forget me. Because for once, I'm going to do what you ask. I'm coming back. And you better be here when I do._


	3. Moving Forward

Moving Forward

It had been two years since Sherlock's death.

John liked to think he was okay now-better than he had been last year, and even better than he had been the year before that-but he knew he wasn't yet. Not entirely.

On the outside, he certainly looked okay-he had moved past the depression stage, there was no more tears, he was sleeping, eating, had a job, all the normal things. And that was okay. Mostly.

If someone asked him, just the normal _how are you_, he would reply _good_ just as he was supposed to-though the real answer was a bit different.

_I'm okay. Mostly._

But of course, he never answered that way.

Though most may not have seen _okay_ as much of an improvement, John did, and he had one person to thank for that-Mary Morstan.

He hadn't felt much like dating after Sherlock's death, naturally-he hadn't felt much like doing anything, really-and it had taken over a year of prodding from Lestrade and Stamford to even try dating again-and yes, the first few attempts were a bit disastrous. He kept looking over his shoulder, waiting for Sherlock to burst in and interrupt, dragging him away for some insane, dangerous task, but of course he never came, and John was left to try to socialize with the poor girl, who had obviously put a lot of effort into the date. He always would make up some excuse and leave, he would never be able to concentrate fully on the date. He had given up for awhile, until Lestrade set him up with a pretty blonde named Mary.

The date did not go at all well at first-he made the mistake of letting her choose where to eat, and of all the places she could have chosen, she chose the very restaurant where he and Sherlock would always get Chinese, a short walk from their old flat.

John tried valiantly to socialize with her, but everywhere he looked there was something that reminded him of Sherlock, that smelly noodle dish he always used to order, the old, white haired regular that used to be part of the detective's homeless network...

John knew Mary could tell something was up, and eventually excused himself and went to go get some air. He stood outside for a good five minutes, trying to slow his rapid breathing and keep from slipping into a full on panic attack, when he felt someone's hand on his arm.

"John?"

He turned to look, and saw Mary standing there in the light of the doorway, a small, sad smile on her face.

"I'm sorry, Mary," he said sheepishly. "I'll just be a minute."

"It's alright," she said lightly. "I understand." She was silent a moment, then spoke again. "Mind if I stand with you? It's...a bit stuffy in there."

John was surprised, he had fully expected her to go back inside. Watching her date in the throes of a near panic attack was probably not her idea of a nice evening out, after all.

They were both quiet for a few minutes, watching the cars pass by and the lights of the city. He knew it should feel awkward, but it actually felt good standing there with her.

"You miss him." Mary spoke quietly, as though she was reluctant to shatter the silence.

John didn't bother asking her who she meant, or how she knew about Sherlock. Practically everyone knew he was the friend (or the romantic partner, as everyone liked to think) of the infamous fraud detective.

"Yes." He said after a slight hesitation.

"Want to talk about it?"

"What?"

"I said, want to talk about it?"

John chuckled drily. "Aren't we supposed to be on a date? Shouldn't we be making small talk over dinner?"

Mary laughed, and John realized he liked the sound of her laugh. "Sure, but that's not what you really want to do, is it?"

"Not really," John admitted.

"Exactly my point," Mary replied. "Come on, let's take a walk."

And they did, and John talked. He talked about all things he had wanted to say for over a year, about Sherlock and their friendship, about their adventures, about just their life in general, and Mary listened to it all. She seemed to even enjoy listening to him talk, and she told him about her father, who had also died a year before, and they talked for so long that by the time they were finished the restaurant had long closed, which was not at all good because Mary had left her jacket in the restaurant, along with her wallet. It was a bit nippy outside, so John gave Mary his jacket and money for the cab ride home, with his apologies.

"It's alright," Mary told him as she got into the cab. "You'll make up for it on our next date, yeah?" She winked and the door shut, and John watched, dumbstruck, as the taxi drove away.

###

Now, six months later, he was happier, yes, being with Mary had done wonders for him-but yet, he was still just okay. He didn't quite understand it, but that was the only way he could describe how he felt. Oddly enough, Mary seemed to understand where he didn't. She never said, but John had a distinct feeling she did.

This was made even clearer one day when she asked him to come with her to St. Bart's, specifically, the rooftop.

John had protested, but she had been insistent, and for some unknown reason, he had agreed.

Now they were walking up the stairs to the roof, John's heart pounding wildly in his chest. They were about to reach the door when John stopped.

"John?"

"I can't," he said desperately. "Mary, I can't-"

Mary slipped her hand into his, and squeezed it gently. "Come on." She pulled him up the rest of the way, and they stepped out into the bright sunlight.

As John looked around, he wondered again for the millionth time what Sherlock had been thinking while he was up here-was he scared of dying? Or had he been completely ready to jump from this roof, ready to end everything in a single instant, his life, his work, their friendship-John couldn't decide which idea was worse, and he held on even tighter to Mary's hand as they walked to the edge.

John braced himself, and looked over, seeing what Sherlock had seen, standing in the exact position from where he had jumped-

_Look up, I'm on the rooftop...I-I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this.._.

John had been standing there, right there, he could see the exact spot-this was how Sherlock had seen him before he had-

_Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do that for me?_

John could hardly feel the grip of Mary's hand anymore, all he could feel and see were all the memories-and he was falling, he was falling just like Sherlock-he hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his entire body-

_Goodbye, John._

"No...not again..."

"John!" Mary's voice came, distantly, quietly in his right ear. "_John_!"

And then he was back, lying on the rooftop by Mary, who was kneeling beside him, holding on to his hand tightly. He was breathing heavily, coming in short, quick gasps, and feeling the sweat beaded on his brow. "Sh-Sher-"

"Shh," Mary soothed. "It's alright, you're okay."

"It was all-it was all happening again-" he said. He had to make sure she understood...

"I know," she said softly, touching his face with her other hand. "But it's okay now. You're going to be fine. Come on, let's get you up." She released his hand and put an arm around his shoulders, and helped him into a sitting position.

Instinctively, he pulled her closer, his arm around her waist, their foreheads touching, and he breathed her in, her scent gently bringing him back to the present. They stayed like that for a few minutes, while John worked on slowing his breathing to a normal pace.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I thought I would be ready."

Mary touched his face again, a half smile appearing on her face. "You don't have to be sorry for anything, John."

John pulled away from her. "Yes, I do, Mary," he said loudly, desperately. "I know you thought that this would help, but I'm sorry, I'm _not_ ready." He stood up, and she remained sitting on the ground, staring up at him. "You don't think I've tried? Tried coming up here, tried moving on, tried being happy, even, but I just _can't_, Mary, I'm sorry!"

He began pacing back and forth, becoming more agitated by the second. "Everyone keeps telling me that I'll move on, to just keep trying, but it's been Two. Bloody. Years, and I'm practically still in the same spot as I was then, I'm just better at hiding it, that's all!" He said, his voice still increasing in volume.

Mary continued to watch him calmly from her perch on the ground, her expression unreadable.

"I'm sorry I can't move on, okay?" He shouted at the sky, not sure whether he was speaking to Mary now or to Sherlock. "I'm sorry, but he was my best friend, he was more than my best friend, how can I be expected to go on like normal when he should-should still be here?" His voice faltered and broke, and he suddenly felt weak. He sank back down onto the ground next to Mary, burying his face in his hands.

"...and you don't want to have to move on, because you would have to forget him, and that would feel like losing him all over again," said Mary softly, pulling John's hands away from his face so he would look at her. John looked down, and Mary tipped up his face towards hers. "Am I right?"

Of course she was right-and John hadn't even realized how true her words were until now. The thought of pushing Sherlock out of his life was completely terrifying-it would be like pushing out a part of himself, and he just couldn't do that.

John nodded ever so slightly, and he looked away again, feeling a bit embarrassed about how much of a mess he still was; but fortunately, as always, Mary was patient with him.

"I'm not asking you to move on," she said mildly, taking his hand again. "No one moves _on_, not really."

"What am I supposed to do then?" John asked irritably.

A thoughtful expression came onto Mary's face, and she looked away, over at the edge where Sherlock had jumped so long ago. "When my father died," she mused, "I wasn't able to move on. I was depressed and alone, and nothing helped, nothing even mattered to me anymore. But then, after about a year," she said, looking back at John, "I realized that trying to move _on_ wasn't working. All I could do was move forward. It still hurt that my father was gone, but once I tried moving forward instead of on, I was able to get better. I finally accepted that no matter what, it was going to hurt for a long time, possibly for the rest of my life, but I could still keep going."

John frowned. "But I've already done that." Hadn't he? He wasn't in denial, he knew Sherlock was gone.

"This is why I brought you up here," Mary said. "I think you should start by not letting the things that remind you of Sherlock bother you."

"I can't just turn it on and off," John insisted. "What do you expect me to do?"

Mary didn't answer. She stood up and offered him her hand. "Come on."

John hesitated for the smallest moment, then took her hand.

She helped him up, and they once again walked back over to the edge. This time, John was able to look, really look, and this time...it was okay. He was okay, everything was okay.

It took a long while and a lot of effort, but eventually John was able to see reminders of his old life with Sherlock without cringing, without losing his head. He started seeing Mrs. Hudson again, even going over to Baker Street itself, despite all the things there that absolutely screamed 'Sherlock' everywhere he looked. He had accepted it, and didn't try to avoid the reminders anymore, in fact, he started looking for them. To him, they became a sign that even though Sherlock was gone, their friendship had meant something-it still did, and it would always be a part of his life, _Sherlock_ would always be a part of his life.

The next time someone asked _how are you_, John had his answer as always-_good_.

But this time, he meant it.


	4. There When You Need Me

There When You Need Me

Molly nervously twirled a piece of hair with one hand, valiantly attempting to distract herself by doing that and reading the book in her other hand. Unfortunately for her, neither was working to assuage the worries or solve the never ceasing questions bouncing around in her head. Had their plan worked? Was Sherlock alright? She was absolutely itching to text Sherlock, but he had adamantly instructed her not to make any type of contact with him, insisting he would come to her when it was all over.

Suddenly, her front door swung open with a bang, and to her great relief, it was Sherlock, though a terrible sight he was. Fake blood completely soaked Sherlock's dark curls, vibrant red streaked down the side of his face, a violent contrast to his paled skin. It struck her that he looked small, almost hunching over, practically being swallowed up by his long dark coat, with his right arm curled strangely at his chest. She could see quite clearly the strain in his face and the years he had already gained from this one ordeal. It reminded her of the haunted look her mother had had when her father died. Sherlock noticed her staring and made a kind of huffing noise in the back of his throat, straightening up.

Molly stood up abruptly, her long forgotten book falling to the floor, hurrying over to the detective. She touched his arm lightly, raising her eyebrows in questioning.

"Are you- alright?" She asked quietly, studying him. She knew it was a silly question-everything about him absolutely screamed 'not alright', but it seemed better to ask.

He avoided her gaze, and stared intensely at the ceiling, a slight tremor in the corner of his mouth. "I'm fine. Landed a bit funny." He said brusquely.

"I didn't mean your arm."

He seemed to startle slightly at this, ceasing his intense scrutiny of Molly's ceiling and glancing down at her, his eyebrows furrowing. He opened his mouth to speak, and Molly's heart began to pound in apprehension of whatever he was about to tell her. But an instant later, something in his expression seemed to crumple, and he closed his mouth again. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then swept past her. "I need your bathroom."

He barged into Molly's pink and frilly bathroom, walked to the sink, and turned on the tap. She followed him timidly, watching him from the doorway.

The small sink may have been a little low for Molly, but it was entirely too low for the tall detective. Sherlock stared at the sink for a moment, baffled as to a way to wash his blood matted hair with one arm. He awkwardly tried to bend over, but quickly straightened with a a gasp, as this proved to be too much for his injured arm. He exhaled sharply in frustration, and his shoulders almost imperceptibly slumped in a defeated manner.

Without thinking, Molly came up behind Sherlock and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Here." She pushed him gently into a kneeling position, and placed her other hand on his neck. She could feel him trembling under her hand, his whole body shaking in small tremors. Carefully, she positioned Sherlock's head under the tap, turning on the water. He hissed slightly as the bitter cold water streamed into his hair.

"Sorry," Molly muttered as she turned the water to a warmer temperature. _This is insane,_ she thought. Any other time she would have been thrilled at the chance to run her fingers through Sherlock's hair, but now, all she felt was the tangible pain and guilt radiating from the detective.

She grabbed some random shampoo that was on the shelf (she flushed a dark red when she saw it was her scented shampoo called 'Sexy Dahlia Rush' that she had received from a previous Christmas) and squirted a good amount on the back of his head. Sherlock stiffened when Molly started massaging the shampoo into his hair, but after a moment, he relaxed underneath her hands, the tension in his shoulders releasing. He was quiet while she worked the sticky fake blood from his curls, almost seeming to be content with the entire process. Molly didn't want to flatter herself or get her hopes up, but it looked as if this was helping, even if it was just the smallest bit. If anything, it comforted her that he was here at all, letting her do this tiny, meaningless thing for him.

She scrubbed vigorously at his hair until it was completely clean. As an afterthought, she put in some conditioner. She rinsed it out, then pulled a fresh towel from the rack. She tousled his hair to dry it, and only realized she was doing it a bit roughly when she heard a low and reproachful, "_Molly._ "

"Sorry!"

The detective straightened up slowly, stood, and turned to face Molly, who was now clutching the towel to her chest.

"Oh, your face!" She wet the towel under the tap, turned the water off, then stepped close to Sherlock. She reached up and touched the damp towel to the side of his face, wiping off the blood. She could feel his hot breath on her forehead, those lips entirely too close to her face, and she struggled to concentrate on the task at hand.

When she finished, she lowered the towel, and was about to step back when Sherlock's good hand shot out and caught Molly's wrist. "Molly, I-" He was so close, so close he was speaking into her ear, his breath tickled her cheek, and it was honestly so _distracting_-

"Thank you. For this. All of it."

"Of course. Anything." She stammered. "There's a change of clothes in the other room. Stay as long as you need." She said, attempting what she meant to be a bright, encouraging smile.

He backed away slightly, released her wrist, and nodded. The mood suddenly shifted as he straightened, and his expression hardened once more, the pain and shame that he had been exuding only moments before hidden away. "Only for a couple weeks, I think." He said, and then swept out, leaving Molly standing alone in the bathroom, still clutching the wet, stained towel.


End file.
